


Mazarb Khazâd. Accounts of the Dwarves.

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, Other - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2009-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3769649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of the Dwarrows, in particular the House of the Iron Hills.<br/>Each "Chapter" is a standalone piece, though as a collection tell a progressing account.<br/>New: "The Ironfoot" a new take on how Dain might have gained his episse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grór Muses

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

At odds with the seemingly stern expression upon his venerable face, Lord Grór of the Iron Hills peered glitteringly at his grandchild. The quirk within the astounding length and breadth of his beard the only other hint of the ever-turning gears of his vast sense of humour, save perhaps the characteristic tucking of his spare hand into the sash bound about his ample stomach. Having inherited his Grandsire's humorousness Dáin son of Náin son of Grór could not help but grin, his teeth white, and his lips red with the vigour of youth. 

Having been unfettered Grór's gladness was revealed in the deep furrows of his brow which shifted so that his eyes were framed by a thousand marks of long care and resolute contentment. The Lord of the Iron Hills had seen days much filled with darkness, but the taint of it had never set in. Grór's nostrils flared with the deep breath of the mountain air he drew within. Standing upon the summit of his free realm was the height of his pleasure. To ascend the Great Stair of Zhylynnydim* his mansion that men called Lodehome, that were carved and graven with poetry and scenes from his people's long heritage. To step out onto the dais, where row upon row of valleys lay arrayed beneath. Their country was remarkable and bountiful, with youthful streams and rivers rushing gladly beneath the singing boughs of pine and fir. Grór nodded, his lips pursing with the unremarked thought, that surely to this far-flung bastion of the Mountains of Angband, it seemed perhaps the true shadow of Morgoth had never truly extended, for Eagles, favoured by Manwe, roamed across the skies, and Ents still roamed amongst the airy forests.

Dáin's own thoughts appeared less carefree perhaps, hooded beneath drawn brows; but he had scaled the Stairs for his Grandsire's benefit nonetheless. His father, Náin, had never been so inclined; preferring the intense competition of the forges, and the word-sparring of the courts. He was champion of steel, and gold and silver were his servants; and for satire, the Courts of Lodehome had never seen Náin's flair. For Náin's delight was in the unleashing of his utter ability; in Dáin by contrast, perhaps like Grór himself, the blood of the East-Houses ran true. For the darkness and the oppression of Sauron in the East had always been heaviest. The Blacklocks and the Stonefoots differed from the West-Houses in being by nature more deliberate and deft of their actions and they had grown to value freedom more than hoards of wealth, and peace. Moreover the East-Houses were not estranged from the Eldar, the Avari of the East. 

Grór had met those elves, _the Moriquendi_ as they were condescendingly called by the West-Elves. But there was nothing _dark_ about _Avari_ for all that the Light of the Utmost West was not to be seen in their eyes -but then perhaps there was not the arrogance either, nor the perilous fervour that had twice now ended in disaster for the Middle Earth. They too had arisen beside the _Waters of Awakening_ along with the others, but having _Refused_ the summons of Orome to Valinor the _Avari_ -elves were alike to the East-Dwarves, less prideful, nor ever arrogant.

It fell to Grór to attempt to balance the two opposed natures that resided within him, for he was a Prince of the Longbeards, and by the blood of his mothers Kin, a Prince of Blacklocks too. He had discerned what had made the West-Dwarves and the Exiled Noldor such ready allies in the past ages -a similar lust for knowledge and craft, as a pursuit in and of themselves. Those who were willing to make a thing of mighty craft without caution for whether such a thing _should_ be made. By the grace of Aule Grór had endeavoured to stay wary of pride. Those few of the Wandering Eldar that visited Grór's halls had commented on as much. The Exiles of the lost realm of the Gwaith I Mirdain mused that surely the goodwill of the Valar went with Grór, and the Folk of his House, where all other Kin of Durin's line seemed harrowed by misfortune. This was a widely perceived phenomenon. Indeed many of the Houseless Firebeards and Broadbeams had taken oaths to Grór and the Fate of the Iron Hills. In Lodehome they were reunited with their sundered Kin in the East, the Blacklocks and the Stonefoots, who had also gathered within his mansion swelling their numbers and their Craft and Lore.

In spite of the worthy fortune of the Iron Hills: Grór saw, as he had done very often of late, that Dáin was fingering the red-hued biting edge of his axe. 'Speak Lord Dáin, son of my son, what grim rumour is that axe of yours whispering to you?' Grór spoke loftily, with characteristic drollness ringing in the timbre of his voice. Grór had seen the likes of the grief that pressed down upon Dáin. The last of the exiles of Khazad-Dum had lived and died in Grór's lifetime. The Lord of the Iron Hills was himself an orphan, and exile of his Fathers Realm in the Grey Mountains. He had seen the steady crumbling of the strength within the continually exiled Dwarves time and time again. The glacial-grinding of their grief and loss upon their proper destiny, to flourish, to endure. 

For those that had seen the hallowed halls, and worked within the fabled smithies of Khazadum and Ered Mithrin, Grór harboured a boundless compassion, but Dáin, barely more than a child, had never seen them. He had been born in the freedom and dignity of Grór's vassal-realm in the Iron Hills, a son of Princes, and as sturdy a dwarrow-lad, and gifted an apprentice as Dwarves hoped ever to see. 

But there was a shadow on the Dwarves, and this was in part why Grór had chosen to strike away from the fate of his brother, the King. Though it bred gold and fabulous fortune, Grór also associated inevitable doom with the Ring of Durin -and it concerned the Lord of the Iron Hills that his grandchild was so entranced by his red axe -for it had been wrought by his Uncle, King Thror, the Ringbearer, upon whom Grór had also seen an insidious restlessness and dissatisfaction take hold.

With a deep-rooted sadness Grór recalled his last speech with the King: "Put it aside my Lord, Thror, brother of my flesh and of our long cares." The Lord of the Iron Hills had implored. "I deem it plagues your success, and robs you of the joy of what peace we have earned."

At this Thror, Heir of Durin himself, seemed to loom -but like a mighty pillar crushed beneath the weight of a mountain. "The joy we have earned? Humbling ourselves to forsake the Halls of our Forefathers in the Grey Mountains?" Thror's eyes darkened, becoming hard, and lightless as a lamp within which the flame has been veiled. "Factors of mere iron and coal to men. What satisfaction have we earned?"

At this Grór merely gripped his brother's mighty shoulders, and kissed his cheeks, and lastly his brow. "I will not seek to trouble your resolve with conflicting counsel, for I deem your mind is set, is it not my King? Only I wish you would put aside Durin's Ring, let it pass to your son. Let the young trouble themselves with hoards of riches; let we of wisdom and wealth of _years_ turn our minds to the fate of our peoples, even the least of coal-mongers. Thrain is ripe in his wisdom and strength, as my son is in his. Let us wander again, but not into exile this time, but between our free realms, let us teach those blacksmiths, farriers, and wrights of our Blood such craft as has not been seen since we departed Ered Mithrin." But at Grór's words Thror shrugged down into his beard, heedless of his brother's plea and soon departed for Erebor, and Grór knew he would not meet his brother again in life.

Rising out of his reverie Grór's attention returned to his grandchild, whose eyes in turn were kindled with humour that Grór himself was now musing darkly. "I feel a tremor beneath my feet Lord." Said Dáin in answer to the earlier question, "The rumour of peril. In my dreams I hear the earth groan, even as the darkness spews from the mountain of the Black Land anew. And I hear my axe laughing, wickedly, as if some queer trick has been woven into its fate -as if some fell purpose was at work, and succeeding."

Grór's mood immediately grew resolute, like the shoulders of an ox upon the yoke. "Guard your heart from such fears and doubts, flesh of my flesh; trust in Mahal and the goodness of Eru, who deemed to include us in the fate of Ea so splendidly were we crafted. Mahal made us to endure all, and to prosper. But you need happiness to breed happiness Dáin."

Dáin's posture straightened, his admirably trailing beard for such a youth lifting along with his chin, as his grandsires words stoked the fires within him. Dáin passed his hand over his eyes. "I am myself again my Lord, the fit is passed."

Grór embraced his grandchild. "The fit may have passed, but not the Dark Days you have foreseen will be ours. I too have foreseen that the peril of dragons will seem as naught against the doom that arises in the Black Land. But thusly we have been wrought into life by Mahal, and Eru. It is we who have been made to endure and prosper in this time, dark as it may be."

With this, they went down into the Lodehome.

  


* * *

[[1]](http://astele.co.uk/henneth/#_ftnref1) Zhylynnydim, Lode-Home


	2. The Ironfoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the Dwarrows, in particular the House of the Iron Hills.

In the deeps of the mountain the shield wall of the Iron Hills held. An ear tilted within the high-crowned helm, sifting the frenzied clamour of the goblins and the low murmur of the dwarves. Within the deep coppery beard a jaw tightened. Hooding about the contemplative shadow within them, the dwarf's eyes hardened. The young Prince shrugged his shoulders beneath the weight of hauberk and gorget, watching the flickering torchlight at the end of the hard-won passage grow nearer, and hearing the echo in the passages of his father's legion chanting the name of the orc-captain whose blood they sought to shed. The legion under the banner of Dáin son of Náin remained quiet, allowing their axes to speak -a grim speech of vengeance and immoveable resolve. Prince Dáin of the Long March needed only to wait now. The moment for chaos was at hand but not yet ripe. What must be done now needed only to be done. 

The presence of the living rock overhead was a cool comfort to the Prince. Reaching a gauntleted hand to touch the wall and then his heart. Final resolve hardened, his breath whistled through his nostrils into his swelling chest: if Dáin son of Náin was to meet his end in this battle there could be no place more appropriate for his lifeblood to be spilt than at the roots of the mountains. Nor was there a cause more worthy than retribution for the desecration of the Heir of Durin, goodly and venerable Thrór, the brother of Dáin's grandsire. Those of the legion had all known Thrór: the passion of his voice and the wonders that his hands crafted. In memory and grief for the loss of this the legion bought vengeance at the expense of blood and lives; had thus driven the goblins occupying Gundabad down to the central chamber of that ancient dwarf-mansion where in the open hall the berserkers of the Iron Hills were to be finally set loose, with Dáin son of Náin at their head. Arrayed about him his body-guard stood now, steady and erect, solid and deep-rooted as the mountain itself.  


A hail of arrows greeted the shieldwall as it issued from the passage, the bloodied shields and long shadows of the dwarves like pitch pouring into the chamber, and at the fore striding heedless of the arrows was Dáin, a red glimmer in his hand -the spark to set the pitch alight- the scarlet axe _Bundutarag,_ the bloodbeard _,_ unbelted now with a great cry. But even in that valiant moment, of the unveiling of the wrath of Dáin of the Long March, Prince of the Line of Durin, so his father erupted from the other reach of the chamber. The voice of the Heir of the Iron Hills went up in the Hall of Gundabad, its sound leaving the very eyes of the orcs watering, and their ears ringing. "Who is this living in our most ancient home? Where is the tennant?" Demanded Náin son of Grór, levelling the thorn atop his mattock at the Great Captain of the orcs. The bloodied glitter of his hauberk, and the moan of his mattock in the air was a terror to behold. But if the rabble of the orcs had all been slain before that hour, now the dwarves were met with the captains of the Gundabad-Orcs and their body guards. Arachnid-like, each captain stood behind his clustered guards wielding a long spear, arrayed before him a dauntless orc with an axe in each hand and another with a buckler and a sturdy knife, in this fashion the orcs fought, like one creature with many perilous limbs. But the orc-gangs had not reckoned with the wrath of the Folk of the Iron Hills who had long contemplated this hour, and had kirtled themselves against the need for recklessness. Indeed the Heir of the Iron Hills allowed the blows of the orcs to fall upon him, while about him fell dauntlessly many a dwarf. But the gorget and the peerless mail of the Heir withstood every stroke, so that he strove against the Great Captain, whose spear and axes were turned by the armour in a shower of sparks. Náin laughed at the Orc Captain and smote him down with a single mighty effort.  


The Prince, who knew that his father would seek to bring the Great Captain down, sought with his own Legion to ensure his father's spear-head attack was not turned into a rout. In this way, reckless as the Legion of Náin had been, the orcs of Gundabad were caught as between the hammer and the anvil, and were shown no quarter. The meeting of the father and his son was a glad one.

"Hail Dáin! My Son! Let it never be forgot that you are here! How may miles have you marched? My tireless scion, forever marching! _The Ironfoot_ I style thee, dauntless son in whom I am well pleased!" Spoke the Heir of the Iron Hills.

Dáin  knelt before his father. "I did not come for thanks or praise Sire. You honour me greatly. I came that you would command me lord."

Náin took his son's hand, lifting him to his feet. "Rise Ironfoot. To Azanulbizar!"  



End file.
